


Ten Minute Cars

by leonidaslion



Category: Fast and the Furious (2001)
Genre: Biting, Car Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Marking, Mechanic(s), Plot What Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Undercover, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:26:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He owns you now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Minute Cars

**Author's Note:**

> Um. Yeah. So _that_ happened...

_He owns you now._

Mia’s words come back to Brian again and again as he bends over the Supra’s engine block in the afternoon heat. It’s close and stifling in the garage, air conditioning unit on the fritz as usual because all of Dom’s money goes into the quality of the cars instead of into the comfort of his mechanics. 

Although maybe that’s unfair. Dom’s in here with the rest of them, pushing himself harder than anyone else. He just doesn’t seem to notice the heat when there’s metal under his hands. All that intense control and focus stares down such mundane concerns as sweat and fatigue—not thirst, because Dom’s seldom far from a can of beer. Not that Brian has ever seen him drunk during the day. Dom sweats it all out and goes back for another.

 _He owns you now,_ Mia said, and wasn’t there a shiver that went through Brian at those words? Isn’t there a frisson of the heat that chokes him day in and day out when he’s closed up in this shadowy place that smells of oil and warm metal?

Brian wipes his brow with one forearm, leaning up from the engine for a breath of air, and stops.

Dom’s leaning over the hood of his RX-7, which is up on the blocks for a tune-up. Like usual, he isn’t wearing a shirt: just a thin cotton tank that’s seen better days and might have been white once upon a time. Now it’s faded and darkened with traces of old oil stains, grease smears on the stomach in the shape of Dom’s fingers where he absentmindedly wiped them dry. He’s gripping the edge of the hood with both hands, muscles flexed in a way that struck Brian as completely artificial and practiced when he first started shadowing Dom, but which he’s come to admit isn’t anything but Dom’s tightly restrained energy coming out the only way it’s allowed. 

As far as Brian knows, Dom doesn’t lift. The bulk and the muscles are the automatic result of good genes and near-continuous work in the garage. Brian saw the dude hoist an entire engine block up the other day and drop it into a ’91 Lotus without the help of a winch—every motion just as carefully regulated as always, without any sign of strain. Brian puts in two hours at the gym every day—or he did, before this assignment started—and he wouldn’t have been able to pull that off.

Dom isn’t looking into the RX-7’s engine. He’s looking across the dim garage—looking at Brian. Watching him.

 _He owns you now,_ Mia’s voice whispers into Brian’s ear, ghost-like.

Brian shivers with a rush of ice that pours down his spine—a confused inversion of temperature that only ever hits him in the middle of an extreme heat wave—and he looks back down at his hands. The cold is fading, leaving him more conscious than ever of the close, suffocating air. He must be close to overheating. He should take a break, go find some cool water to dump over his head. Everyone else has already cleared out for cooler pastures, and it’s only him and Dom in the garage now.

Only him and Dom.

Brian swallows, then leans further over the Supra’s engine. He slides his right hand over metal that’s grimed with old oil and dirt, and feels down for the blowoff valve. The damn thing’s caked with more of the same crud he’s been running into everywhere else, and he grunts as he fights to unscrew it. He’ll need to run the valve under some warm water, get it clean so he can see whether it’s cracked or salvageable. He doesn’t look up as he battles what must have been years of neglect for possession of the valve. All of his own hard-bought self-control is at work fighting to keep his fractured focus on the engine where it belongs, but it’s damned difficult with the awareness of Dom’s attention prickling his skin.

_He owns you now._

Brian keeps wondering what Mia meant by that. He’s been wondering more since he asked her out in Dom’s kitchen the other night and she gave him a strange smile and said, _oh, that’s sweet. But I usually don’t date my brother’s…friends._

Brian’s fingers slip off the valve and he bites his lower lip, blinking sweat from his eyes and giving his damp hair a toss. 

Fuck, it’s hot in here.

But if Brian’s going to be brutally honest with himself, it isn’t the heat that’s bothering him. It’s that pause in Mia’s voice—the one before ‘friends’. Like that isn’t quite the word she meant.

“Gotcha, you bitch,” he mutters as the valve finally moves. Now that it’s started, he’s able to turn it more easily, and he has it off with a few twists of his wrist. He straightens with a grin of triumph, glances reflexively over to Dom’s RX-7 to share the moment, and his smile falters. 

Dom’s gone. For such a big guy, he moves like a cat sometimes.

Brian turns, meaning to toss the valve on the nearby table and take a beer break himself, and pulls up short. The valve slips from his fingers, which have gone slack with startled surprise. Dom hasn’t left. Dom’s right there, standing less than a foot away and not quite looming over him. 

Then Dom takes a step forward, a towering wall of muscle and intent, and okay, sure, _now_ he’s looming.

 _He owns you now,_ Mia’s voice breathes, and then she’s gone.

“Hey, Dom,” Brian says, keeping his voice light and friendly. 

They tapped him for this job for a reason, and not just because he knows his way around beneath a hood. Brian’s smooth. That’s how Tanner puts it, anyway. Bilkins has used less complimentary terms to describe Brian’s ability to blend in and soothe temperamental suspicions. From Dom’s closed, null expression, Brian’s going to need every bit of that natural talent to worm his way out of this one.

 _He knows,_ he thinks, heart speeding. _He followed me, or Vince followed me, and now I’m fucked._

But he manages to sound only slightly perplexed and uncomfortable as he adds, “Uh, what’s up?”

Dom leans forward, gripping the Supra’s frame on either side of Brian’s body. Brian’s been in a lot of tight spots before, but he hasn’t ever felt quite this cornered. Dom’s dark eyes are glittering with untapped reservoirs of the energy he keeps tightly under wraps. Looking into those eyes, Brian gets for the first time how the calm, controlled man he knows could have gotten himself locked up for assault. 

“I’m tired of fucking around,” Dom says in that low, gravel-rough voice that always sends shivers through Brian’s skin. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Brian protests, although there’s a tense, aching pull in his stomach that says he’s lying.

Dom lifts one hand from the car and reaches for Brian’s head. His hand is open, so it isn’t a punch, and Brian’s off-balance enough that he doesn’t even try to duck away as Dom gets a good grip on his hair and draws his head back, stretching Brian’s neck out in a long line.

“This,” Dom rumbles. “I’m talking about this.”

 _Oh shit,_ Brian thinks as Dom leans in, and then Dom’s mouth is on his and he isn’t thinking at all. Breathing is enough to take up his attention; breathing and not doing anything incredibly stupid like kissing back. Only the pressure against Brian’s mouth increases as Dom twists his fingers in Brian’s hair, and Brian opens his mouth on reflex. He pushes up and forward, getting one hand up between them and gripping Dom’s shirt in his fist.

Dom makes a noise low in his throat—not so much a groan as a growl—and surges back, forcing his tongue into Brian’s mouth and shifting his free hand over to palm Brian’s waist. 

_He owns you now._

Brian jerks his head to the side, ignoring the twinge of pain when his hair pulls against Dom’s fingers. “Wait,” he blurts. He realizes that he’s still hanging onto Dom’s shirt and forces his hand to open. “Just—wait a second.” 

“I’m done waiting,” Dom answers, relentless. He shifts his body forward, penning Brian in against the Supra. “You don’t want this, you better say so now.”

 _I don’t._ The words stick in Brian’s throat, though, and it isn’t panic making his heart race in his chest. Not just panic, anyway. 

Aw, fuck, he can’t do this. He can’t get involved.

 _Going native,_ he thinks distractedly. _They call it going native._

Dom smiles—a slow show of his teeth, like a cat’s grin. “S’what I thought,” he purrs, and gives Brian’s hair a tug. “Now get back over here.”

His tongue is back in Brian’s mouth a moment later, forcing Brian’s jaw wide. Brian’s skin feels burnt. He’s sweating, or Dom’s sweating, it’s all one wet blur of heat. The scent of overheated chrome and exhaust is in the air—not the cars, not the shop, but Dom. Dom smelling like some incredibly dangerous, incredibly masculine beast of metal and flesh.

Dom’s hand turns in a rolling motion at Brian’s hip, catching the lower hem of Brian’s shirt, and then Dom breaks the kiss long enough to jerk Brian’s t-shirt up over his head. His hands are everywhere on the way back down, fingertips calloused and just this side of too rough. 

Where the hell did Brian ever get the idea that Dom was straight? How could he ever have thought Dom, even with his impressive self-restraint, would be able to regulate his strength for a woman? 

Brian winces when Dom’s hand tugs on his hair, angling his head up and back once more, and then winces again when Dom’s teeth dig into his exposed throat. Dom isn’t holding back, biting down and sucking while Brian squirms where he’s trapped against the car and tries to figure out if this counts as an attack or not.

“You gonna just roll over for me, Brian?” Dom asks without lifting his mouth from Brian’s skin. The words—the heated, mocking tone of them—is a challenge Brian can’t ignore.

He jerks his head sharply, brings both hands up and then drives them forward, striking Dom in the chest—hard. Dom grunts, allowing the shove to knock him back a step ( _and there’s no doubt in Brian’s head that Dom allows it_ ), and then grins. His eyes trail over Brian’s chest in a way that reminds him he’s naked from the waist up—possessive, commanding. Dom’s standing there looking at Brian like he really does expect him to roll over the way he said.

Fuck that.

“I don’t know what the hell’s got into you,” Brian says, drawing a hand over the sore, wet place on his throat ( _deep-seated ache; it’s going to bruise for sure, and then what’s Brian supposed to say to Tanner?_ ) and taking a sidling step to the right, where he sees his shirt lying discarded on the Supra’s roof. “But I—”

“Oh, cut the shit,” Dom interrupts. “You think I haven’t noticed you watching me?” 

Brian can’t exactly set Dom straight on the reason for his attention without giving himself away, so he presses his lips together in a tight line and watches Dom close in on him again. He isn’t sure why he’s not going for his shirt. Or why the temperature in the garage seems to have shot up twenty degrees. It’s getting difficult to breathe in here.

“You think I haven’t noticed you panting after me like a bitch in heat?” Dom adds, reaching for him.

Brian smacks Dom’s hand away, but the gesture feels weak even to him, and he knows full well that he’s losing any chance at plausible deniability. As though sensing Brian’s turn of thought, Dom’s grin widens.

“You weren’t interested, you would’ve punched me by now.”

“You want to get punched, keep pushing me.”

“Okay.”

Brian blinks ( _that wasn’t the response he was expecting_ ) and then blinks again as Dom pulls his tank off in one smooth motion. He has a few seconds to stare at the broad expanse of Dom’s chest and then Dom is on him. Dom’s sweat-slicked skin slides against his chest, all hard lines and muscle where Brian’s used to feeling curves. It’s a distracting difference and Brian loses his chance to shove Dom off again before Dom goes back to kissing him—bruising, hungry pressure that splits Brian’s lower lip. 

At least the lip’ll be easier to explain than the bruise already forming on his neck. 

When Brian finally pulls together enough to get a hand up, Dom catches his wrist easily, almost casually, and then forces one broad thigh between Brian’s legs. Shock stills Brian—not that Dom pulled the move; Dom’s nothing but direct. No, it’s Brian’s natural response to the sudden pressure that has him frozen, temperature skyrocketing and pulse a NOS-fueled burn. 

He’s hard. Dom’s pressed up against him, holding him still, and Brian’s hard.

 _He owns you now,_ Brian hears again, a maddening echo.

 _No one owns me,_ he thinks back with as much confidence as he can muster in the face of his current situation—pinned in against the Supra with his shirt off and another man’s tongue in his mouth. Dom’s thigh is an obvious, intent pressure against Brian’s dick, which is being quite vocally happy about having Dom there. 

How the fuck did Brian miss this about himself? How did _Tanner_ miss it? Or did Tanner know? Did he take one look at Brian and scent it on him, know that he’d be the perfect bait to lure Toretto in close and get him to drop his guard along with his pants?

Only problem is: the poor asshole playing bait usually gets fucked. In this case, possibly quite literally.

 _I can’t do this._

The thought of self-denial is unexpectedly painful, and even as Brian feels himself begin to kiss back, he wonders just how far gone he is. 

Dom breaks the kiss, twisting his head to the side to bite along Brian’s jaw and mouth his way to Brian’s ear. “So fucking gorgeous,” he whispers. “First time I saw you, I knew you’d be sweet.” His hand drops down between their bodies, gripping Brian’s cock through his jeans and giving it a squeeze. “First time I saw you drive, knew I had to have you.”

The confession should in no way be turning Brian on like it is.

He can’t see Dom’s mouth where Dom’s face is hovering beside his own, but he can feel Dom’s muscles work against his cheek and he knows the smile’s there as Dom adds, “Just so we’re clear, though; I’m driving now.”

Comprehension hits Brian a second after Dom has started opening his jeans for him and his pride rears up, bucking against whatever fucked up spell Dom’s rough magnetism has cast over him. He isn’t spreading for anyone, damn it, no matter how much his body is assuring him that he wants this.

“Like hell you are,” he mutters. 

Dom laughs in his ear, low and amused. “Boy, you wouldn’t know your way around a gear stick if I drew you a map.”

“Fuck you,” Brian shoots back. 

The accusation’s probably true—it isn’t like Brian has made a practice of fucking around with guys—but his chest stings with the need to feel less like an ambushed rabbit and more like a junkyard dog. He reaches for Dom’s jeans and suddenly it’s a race to see which of them can strip the other faster. Dom wins, but just because he’s playing dirty as usual and gives Brian’s bared cock a tug once he has Brian’s pants and boxers shoved down around his thighs.

“Fuck,” Brian breathes shakily. Somewhere at the back of his head, he’s aware that the garage doors are open to the day—there’s no traffic to speak of in this part of the city, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t show up. Hell, some of the gang could show up at any second and catch Brian quite literally with his pants around his ankles. He stiffens at the thought, drawing his hands back, and Dom turns his hand and somehow manages to cup Brian’s balls and cock in his one immense palm at the same time. 

Christ, he’s a big guy.

“Relax,” Dom says. “No one’s going to interrupt.”

 _They know,_ Brian thinks. _They cleared out because Dom told them to—whether he actually came out and said it or not._

Brian’s bare skin pebbles with a chill where it’s pressed up against the Supra. The realization that the others know what Dom is doing to him right now heats his face and puts a horrified, exposed feeling in his chest. He remembers Mia—the way she looked at Brian when he tried picking her up, that expression he couldn’t read. He gets it clearly enough now. That was the look of someone who knows better than to go near Dom’s territory—near his property.

And Brian thinks of those words, practically the first thing she said to him aside from her comments on the garage’s tuna.

_He owns you now._

Breathless, Brian leans against the car and tries to absorb the knowledge that Dom quietly but authoritatively staked his claim sometime between the race and the moment Brian brought the Supra in. Dom uses Brian’s distraction to shove his own jeans down and then, before Brian can get a really good look at the sheer size of him, he steps in close, grips Brian around the thighs, and lifts.

“Shit!” The exclamation slips out on its own as Dom holds Brian up with his left arm. His right is engaged in pushing Brian’s jeans the rest of the way down and off, and Brian steadies himself automatically, leaning into the support offered by Dom’s other arm while grabbing onto his shoulders.

Dom ignores him, focused on first freeing Brian’s right leg from his jeans and then hitching it up over his own hip. All of a sudden, something hot and hard and silken is pushed up between Brian’s cheeks. He digs his fingers into Dom’s shoulder with a lurch of apprehension, then swears again as Dom pulls him away from the Supra. 

Dom carries him over to the worn leather couch against the garage wall—never mind the fact that Brian weighs over two hundred pounds and tops out at 6”3’; never mind that he isn’t someone who gets carried around, _ever_ —and then shoves him down onto it.

“Get your pants off,” Dom growls, reaching over Brian for one of the cushions. He shoves his hand beneath it and comes out with a condom and a small tube—lube, Brian realizes, which really brings everything home.

Jesus. Jesus, this is really happening.

“Wait,” Brian says, trying once again to slow things down enough for the pistons in his mind to stop misfiring. “Dom, this is—just—hang on a sec.”

Dom’s movements aren’t slowing, though. He bites the condom package open, then rolls the condom onto his cock with swift, economical motions. It’s the first time Brian has gotten a good look at him, and it just figures that Dom would be proportional in all respects.

Brian isn’t sure he can do this.

“I—I haven’t ever done this before,” he admits, every word coming out of him with dragging reluctance. He expects Dom to make fun of him, but instead Dom climbs on top of him—one knee dimpling the couch between Brian’s legs, the other bracing him in from the edge—and leans down for another kiss. He’s good at it, too—practiced enough to derail Brian’s attempts to slow this down yet again. The kisses heat and deepen until Brian’s attention is focused on the skillful control Dom has over his tongue, and then Brian jerks as something breaches him.

“Mmph!”

Dom lets the kiss break, but the sensation of being penetrated doesn’t fade. Instead, Brian feels whatever it is moving in and out of him in sharp, hasty jabs that don’t precisely hurt, but are incredibly uncomfortable. It’s weird and just plain wrong, being on the receiving end. 

“What’re—fuck, Dom, what’re you—”

“Relax.” The rough burr of Dom’s voice ripples through Brian’s body, and he finds himself obeying instinctively. Brian’s been aware of his fascination with Dom’s larger than life persona for weeks, but he didn’t realize he was so far gone until now. How the hell could he have? This thing’s coming at him from so far out in left field, it might as well have been imported from China.

_He owns you now._

Brian shakes his head, digging his fingers into the couch, but doesn’t shut his legs. The thing inside him—Dom’s finger, he’s sure—pushes in deeper and drives a grunt from Brian’s throat.

“I take care of what’s mine,” Dom tells him. 

Brian’s thighs shake as the pressure in his ass increases—a second of Dom’s fingers joining the first.

“I’m—” he stutters when he can speak. “I’m not—You don’t—”

“Couple things you should know about me, Brian,” Dom murmurs, leaning close. “The first is that I usually get what I want. And I don’t share.”

His fingers twist suddenly inside of Brian, scraping over something that drives a full-throated moan from him. His body flushes with cold again as he shudders, wreathed in the lingering fumes of some sharp, intense pleasure.

“I don’t want to see you mooning around after my sister anymore. You need something, you come to me. Are we clear?”

Brian isn’t clear on anything right now. Everything’s moving too quickly, events and emotions speeding past him like street lights in the night, and Brian’s sure he’s going to spin out at any second. Reason tells him to brake now, and brake hard, but there’s another part of him—that same part that always makes him twist the throttle when most drivers would back off, that led him to sign on for undercover detail, that’s drawn toward Dom like a kid itching to slip behind the wheel of his first car—and that part keeps him on his back on the couch, legs sprawled and hips moving in slight, rhythmic rolls as Dom’s fingers work him open.

Then Dom twists his fingers again and fire sparks, lighting along Brian’s nerves like the starter spark in an injection coil. Brian cries out unselfconsciously, only vaguely aware of the brilliant patch of daylight on the other side of the garage. 

Dom’s closer: a wall of muscle and tightly coiled intent. If the lube Dom’s using on him is scented, Brian can’t smell it past Dom’s muskier, more primal scent.

“Are we clear?” Dom repeats, enunciating each word with staccato, crisp emphasis.

“Yes!” Brian grits out through tightly clenched teeth. “Fuck, yes, we’re clear!”

“That’s good.” Dom’s voice runs up Brian’s spine like the low rumble of a revving engine. “That’s real good.” His fingers find that place inside of Brian—the place that hits his system like a shot of pure NOS—and press down hard. 

The garage whites out, and when it comes back Brian is clutching Dom’s bicep with his right hand and clinging to Dom’s hip with his left. Dom’s muscles bunch and shift beneath Brian’s hands as he drives his fingers into Brian again and again, each forward twist carefully measured and controlled. He isn’t watching what he’s doing, though; his eyes are locked on Brian’s face, which has to be giving everything away. Brian seems to have forgotten how to dissemble—having the full, unshielded force of Dom’s attention on him is like being drunk.

“This all it takes?” Dom asks with a smug tilt to his mouth. “Couple fingers and you roll over like a little bitch?”

The words hit Brian with the shock of cold water—where he is, what he’s doing, who he’s doing it with. He’s a cop, for fuck’s sake. He’s a professional, and he isn’t _gay_. He hasn’t ever even been bi-curious, or whatever they’re calling it these days. And he sure as shit doesn’t roll over for anyone, no matter how charismatic he is or how good his fingers feel.

Brian’s hands are already correctly positioned, so all he has to do is wait for Dom’s downstroke, when his fingers are almost completely withdraw, and then buck his hips up while yanking down on Dom’s arm. The toss has always gone smoothly at the dojo, and it works almost perfectly now, but it wasn’t ever Dom Brian was trying to unseat on the practice mat. The man has the reflexes of a cat, and he grabs hold of Brian even as he’s toppling off the couch. They both go down together, Dom hitting the floor first with a grunt, then Brian coming down on top of him. 

Brian half expects Dom to be pissed, but Dom grins at him like he was expecting the move—like he _wanted_ Brian to try to toss him—and grates out, “That the best you’ve got?”

For a moment, it’s like that first night—like the race. It’s Dom looking Brian up and down, taking his specs and weighing him up and silently daring Brian to prove him wrong. Brian’s instincts surge in a way he’s become familiar with over the years: the thrill of challenge and competition that Tanner and his instructors at the Academy have done their best to groom out of him. ‘Think with your head, not your dick,’ is Tanner’s constant advice, and, ‘you keep going around trying to prove you’re an alpha dog and sooner or later a stay’s gonna take a chunk out of your ass.’

But Tanner isn’t here now, and Brian doesn’t even try to rein himself in.

“You want a fight,” he pants, getting a better hold on Dom. “You’ve got one.”

Getting the upper hand in a close grapple like this should be easy. Dom has height and bulk on Brian, but nothing in his records indicates that he’s had any formal training. Close combat is one of the standards on undercover detail—rudimentary martial arts that Brian has augmented on his own with Judo. An opponent’s size doesn’t matter when it comes to pressure points and locks. But Dom’s countering everything Brian tosses at him, and laughing all the while.

“Where’d you learn to fight?” Brian pants as Dom counters his attempt at a shoulder lock by rolling and pinning Brian’s hand against the floor with his back.

“Lompoc,” Dom answers. He isn’t laughing anymore, and his eyes darken the way they always do when jail comes up in conversation, even obliquely. 

When he surges up from the floor in the next instant, knocking Brian over, it’s clear that he’s done fucking around. Brian tries to scramble to his feet before Dom can follow up, but Dom’s still moving with that eerie, unstoppable speed that Brian didn’t even suspect he was capable of, and he’s on Brian before he can rise. Dom’s weight slams Brian back onto the floor, driving the breath from his lungs in a grunt. His bare skin shivers at the contact—the concrete feels like ice in comparison with Dom’s heavy heat. 

As Brian struggles to get more air into his lungs, one of Dom’s hands shoves beneath his left thigh. The other grips Brian beneath the arm. When Dom hauls up on him, Brian finds himself lifted again and tossed onto Dom’s shoulder—just as easily as Brian is used to hoisting girls up off the floor and carrying them off to his bed. Conflicting emotions war in his chest—embarrassment, confusion, arousal—and he pounds his fist twice against Dom’s back.

The angle’s all wrong for him to put anything behind the blows, though, and anyway he’s still winded. Dom doesn’t even seem to notice Brian is still conscious as he carries him for several steady strides before coming to an abrupt halt. Metal slams from somewhere behind Brian’s back and a second later Dom is shrugging Brian off his shoulder and dropping him down onto a sloped, smooth surface. Brian twists, looking beneath him, and he’s on a car. He’s on Dom’s car. 

He gets his hands under him, starts to push off, and Dom’s hand lands on the center of his chest: a solid, cautionary pressure.

“Stay.”

_…owns you…_

Fuck that, though. No one tells Brian what to do. Clenching his jaw, Brian moves to get up again. This time, Dom doesn’t just press him back, but actually shoves him down. He doesn’t say anything. The shove and the warning glower of his gaze are command enough.

There’s something wild and powerful growling just beneath the still surface of his face—the closest Brian has ever seen Dom come to uncontrolled. The thought of all that strength and mass unleashed is at once both terrifying and exhilarating. If they could figure out how to get Dom’s personality underneath the hood of one of these cars, they wouldn’t need NOS.

The reckless streak in Brian wants to find out what would happen if Dom slipped just a little further over the edge, but he isn’t completely suicidal and he knows a threat when he sees one. He stills himself, remaining sprawled on the RX-7’s hood with his upper body half propped up on one arm and his legs slightly splayed. Dom takes three deliberate steps back, breathing heavily, and just looks at him.

The silence stretches out between them, charged beyond Brian’s understanding. Brute physical attraction he could fathom, especially on a day like this, when the heat’s enough to drive anyone out of his mind. There’s more weight to Dom’s gaze than simple sex, though. There’s a possessive and almost feral quality to his tightly controlled expression, which makes Brian’s breath catch in his throat.

_He owns you now._

As often as Mia’s words have knocked around in Brian’s head, this is the first moment he realizes she meant them. It’s the first moment he’s consciously aware of just how much he _wanted_ her to mean them. 

They taught Brian to be ready for all sorts of situations in the Academy. They taught him how to speak clearly and convincingly while kneeling on the pavement with a gun to his head. They taught him how to immerse himself in the life and stay clean inside, stay true to himself. They were thorough—of course they were; they’ve prepped thousands of others before him. They know every contingency; crafted the mantra Brian says every morning when he wakes up and every night before he goes to sleep.

_My name is Brian O’Connor. I’m a cop. This is a job. It’s just a job._

Police psychologists have prepared him for the possibility of having to shoot someone. They’ve prepped him on the emotional ramifications of theft and the casual abuse they expected him to encounter on the circuits. They trained him to compartmentalize his feelings of friendship for the men he runs with; how to avoid identifying with people that he spends most of his waking hours treating as friends. 

But no one ever prepared him for Toretto. No one ever saw him coming.

 _Leave,_ he tells himself. _Now. Go tell Tanner you’re compromised and that they have to find someone else._

But it’s too late for that. It’s weeks too late.

“You thinking about fucking me or the car?’

Some of the frightening intensity drains from Dom’s eyes. One corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile. “I have to pick?”

Brian laughs—an open, honest sound that fades when he realizes Dom is staring at his cock where it’s lying exposed between his sprawled thighs. Or maybe Dom’s looking lower than that.

Neither of them speaks as Dom approaches with measured, deliberate steps. From Brian’s vantage point on the RX-7’s hood, it’s like being caught out in the open by a stalking lion. Sure, he could dive for cover, but the lion would be on him before his feet more than brush the cool cement floor. Not that he’s considering it. If Brian were the type to run, he never would have been tapped for this type of assignment.

The cops aren’t in the habit of throwing sheep in with the wolves.

When he’s close enough, Dom reaches out and closes one hand around Brian’s ankle. Brian doesn’t kick Dom off as Dom slides surprisingly gentle fingers upward, feeling his way from Brian’s calf to his knee and thigh. There’s something new and almost tender in the way Dom is studying the path of his hand, avoiding Brian’s eyes in favor of watching the way Brian’s thigh muscle twitches beneath the caress. 

Now Brian shifts, uncomfortable with the sobering, intimate mood, and Dom tightens his grip with a speed that has to be reflexive. A heartbeat later, Dom’s other hand finds Brian’s hip, clamping down with bruising force and yanking Brian forward to the edge of the hood. Dom uses his hold on Brian’s thigh to jerk Brian’s legs wide, then pulls Brian’s leg up over the cut line of his hip. Pressing Brian’s leg in place, Dom leans forward and bites down on Brian’s nipple. 

Brian has always been sensitive there and he hisses, arching his back and pushing forward into Dom’s mouth. Dom releases his thigh to prop himself up on the car—not that it matters, since the tension thrumming through Brian’s muscles is keeping his body where Dom put it. A moment later, Dom lets go of Brian’s hip as well, but this time his arm reappears as a restraining bar at Brian’s back, holding him up and keeping him close. 

Dom’s hips thrust forward and rut his hard cock up between Brian’s legs. Heat shivers through Brian’s body at the friction and he digs his fingers into Dom’s shoulder as Dom bites and licks at first one nipple and then the other. 

Instinct and pride keep telling him to shove Dom off and show him how it’s done, but those voices are getting quieter the longer Dom works him. There’s just something in Dom’s larger than life persona that makes resistance seem futile. There’s something about the man that makes Brian, for the first time in his life, want to follow instead of lead. 

If it really is Toretto robbing the trucks, then Brian is fucked. He’s so damn fucked anyway, of course—if he goes through with this, can he really consider himself a cop anymore? If he lets Dom stake his claim, can he really go slinking back to his handlers? What’s he going to tell them about today? What’s he going to tell them about Dom? How’s he going to explain all the bruises?

“You’re thinking too much,” Dom murmurs as he kisses his way up from Brian’s chest to his throat. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

His hips give a more deliberate thrust as his mouth finds Brian’s pulse and suddenly it’s impossible for Brian to maintain any sense of concern about his career and questionable honor. 

“This a ten minute car?” he asks, his voice hoarse with the shallowness of his breaths. “Or are we talking a ten second deal? Because I’m not sure faster is always bett—ngh!”

He cries out as Dom makes one of those unbelievably swift transitions that ends with both of Dom’s hands grabbing Brian’s hips and yanking him forward while he thrusts up and in. It’s a real thrust, not one of those lingering, slow pumps he’s been making, and there’s a brief sensation of pressure against his ass and then Dom is in. He’s honest to god _inside_ of Brian—just the head at first, but then, once Dom has adjusted his grip and thrust forward again while dragging Brian closer, all the way. 

There’s no going back now. Not after this.

“Faster’s always better,” Dom rumbles.

Brian digs his fingers into Dom’s shoulder and flexes his leg where it’s hitched high around Dom’s waist. He can’t quite believe this is happening to him: that he’s on top of Dom’s car with Dom’s cock in him. It just doesn’t seem possible that they’ve been locked on this collision course ever since they first locked eyes over the Eclipse’s engine. But the deep burn spreading through Brian’s ass says differently.

Dom shudders like a bull, then lowers his head, pressing his face against the side of Brian’s neck, and starts thrusting in earnest. He fucks the same way he does everything else—with the rigid, careful control of a man who’s seen the dark side of abandon and doesn’t want to go back. Brian can feel Dom’s strength riding the edge of each snap of his hips though, and Dom’s muscles keep tensing and relaxing beneath his hands, like he’s constantly struggling to restrain himself from fucking Brian the way he wants to.

Brian may be new at this angle of things, but he’s experienced enough with girls and he leans on that experience to match Dom thrust for thrust. Even as the burn fades into pleasure, it’s really weird, feeling another man’s cock moving inside of him—that sensation of having been penetrated, rather than encased. But it’s _Dom_ , and somehow that breaks all of Brian’s preconceived notions of what’s hot and what isn’t. 

He wants this. Christ, he craves this like he hasn’t craved anything before. Dom’s ruining him for cars. Having 200-odd horses vibrating beneath him isn’t ever going to measure up to Dom’s surging strength.

“I’m not gonna break,” Brian gasps, fighting to speed their rhythm. “C’mon. C’mon, Dom, I thought you said you were _fast._ ”

Dom shudders again—a ripple of muscle in which Brian senses a supreme act of willpower—and then, for a single second, goes slack. Before Brian can really start to consider the prospect that Dom’s all talk and no burn, Dom’s hands tighten again, and his head comes up, and he kisses Brian with a violence that reminds Brian of his split lip all over again. _Now_ Dom’s giving it to him, using all that speed and coiled power to snap his hips with bruising force. It hurts—not a lot, just enough to make Brian’s fight or flight adrenaline kick in.

It’s addictive, this high. Like a goddamned drug.

The RX-7 rocks beneath them with a dangerous, complaining creak of metal. When Dom lets go of Brian with one hand to hang onto the car instead, his next thrust doesn’t just rock the car but shoves it back, knocking one wheel off the blocks with an expensive-sounding crash. Dom doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. He just growls, hips pumping faster, and shoves against Brian’s mouth like he can brand his ownership there.

Brian isn’t sure how long it is before he comes—not quite ten minutes, but a hell of a lot longer than ten seconds. Dom jacks him off at the end, when he must sense that he’s getting close himself, and Brian beats him across the finish line with only seconds to spare. 

Afterwards, Dom stays bent over him without pulling out. His kisses soften and deepen into something approaching tenderness and then cut off completely as Dom pulls back enough to meet Brian’s eyes. Slowly, Dom lifts his hand and slides it up along Brian’s jaw to cup his cheek, getting a good grip on Brian’s head and keeping his face tilted up where Dom can study it.

“A guy could get used to this,” Dom says after a moment. He shifts his hand so that he can run his thumb over the corner of Brian’s mouth. “You better not be thinking of leaving town.”

 _I’m a cop,_ Brian thinks. _I’m a fucking cop._

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t dare, in case those are the words that slip out.

“Oh, and Brian?” Dom adds with a Cheshire curl of his lips. “Next time you make me hurt my car, you aren’t gonna be able to sit down for a month.”

The confession drumming through Brian’s body recedes at Dom’s warning and Brian’s able to mutter, “I’m not sure I’m going to be sitting down for a month now.”

Dom throws his head back and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt words: grapple, loom, mine


End file.
